


Luz De La Luna

by confundedgryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Implied Character Death, a rambly mess, just luna and her mum being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27101176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confundedgryffindor/pseuds/confundedgryffindor
Summary: “Look at her, Luna,” she says. Her voice is breathy and light, happy and calm. “She’s so beautiful, we had to name you after her. Our moonlight.”
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Luz De La Luna

**Author's Note:**

> a mess. enjoy

She sits against her mother’s hip, face buried in the crook of her neck and arms tightly bound around her. Her mother is smiling, holding her ever so tightly as she walks. 

Bare feet sinking into tall grass, dew dampening the hem of her skirt, her mother walks gracefully up the hilly ground. 

She plays with her hair. Holds onto silver blonde strands, tickles her own face with it and sneezes. Her mother laughs, and it echoes with the waves crashing against the cliffside only a few feet in front of them. The sea is reflecting silverwhite light, and the cliff should be dark on a night like this, but the moon makes the night shine bright. 

Her mother sits on the cliff, puts her in her lap and points. 

“Look at her, Luna,” she says. Her voice is breathy and light, happy and calm. “She’s so beautiful, we had to name you after her. Our moonlight.”

* * *

Her mother leaves her alone, and walks up the hill herself. She sits by the kitchen window, and watches as she walks with those graceful steps. 

Her hair is flowing behind her, and if she squints, it’s as though she’s the one walking there--bare feet in damp grass, and that long, flowy dress caressing her legs with the lightest touch, keeping her down on the ground. One with the moon, one with the grass and the gnomes and doxies. One with herself. 

But it’s her mother walking there, head tilted ever so slightly up to the sky; up to the moon and her light. 

She watches as her mother sits on the cliff, and then disappears. A wolf. A silverwhite wolf stands there, sits, and sings to the moon with a melancholy howl. 

Luna sings with her. With the wolf and the moon, and she doesn’t know if she’s laughing or crying as she does, but she sings. 

* * *

Her mother walks up alone every moon, and every time she disappears. Luna doesn't mind. She comes back when the moon goes to sleep, and her rays are replaced with the sun and his brutal warmth and blinding light. 

Luna lets her go alone, because she always comes back. 

And then she doesn’t. 

* * *

Luna is wearing her father’s robes; he’s shrunk them with a flick of his wand, and they fit her like that flowy dress her mother always wore. Wide set sleeves, the hem of the robes brushing against her legs. Marine blue, embroidered with twinkling stars and a waxing and waning moon. 

She walks up the hill, feet bare, and lets the grass tickle between her toes, brush against her knees. She sees a moth looking for the light of the moon, and gently cups it between her hands. He flutters; beats his wings and tries to escape, but Luna whispers into the small crack of her fingers: “Shh… We’re almost there.”

Her feet hit stone, and she can see her own hair shining bright under the light. A beetle has climbed up her leg, up her chest and sits on her shoulder, conversing with wrackspurts in frequencies she can hear but not understand.

She sits on the cliff and opens her hands to let the moth out, and it flies towards the silver light of the moon.

The beetle and the wrackspurts are singing, and Luna joins in, and hears the moon whisper.  _ She’s so beautiful, named after me. Always looking out for me. _

Breathy, light and beautiful. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Luna whispers to the beetle. She doesn’t know if it’s listening, or looking at the moon with her, but it stops singing. “I’m named after her, you know. I think it’s because of my hair.”

A hum. From a wrackspurt or a beetle. 

“I think my mum is up there. I can see her eyes. The grey spots. She’s there.”

Reflecting moonlight on silver hair, the moon sings a melancholy tone, and Luna sings with her.

  
  
  



End file.
